Perfect Strangers Page 3

  She scowled darkly at his dismissive tone as well as his words. Her own expression and tone hardened when she said, a bit more loudly and a bit more slowly, "I asked you where Colin Douglas is. Can you point him out to me?"

  "Colin?" One shaggy red brow cocked high. Was it her imagination, or did Gabrielle see a glint of amusement flicker in his eyes? She was unsure; the emotion came and went too quickly for her to interpret it "Is that who ye be looking for? Colin?"

  She nodded. Was the man daft? Who else would she be looking for, for heaven's sake?

  While Gabrielle wasn't sure what sort of reaction the man would give her, the one he settled upon shocked her to the core.

  A grin twitched at the corner of his thickly mustached lips. As she watched, he tipped back his shaggy red head and let loose a loud, deep, rumbling laugh that drew the attention of more than one of the riders nearby. They craned their necks, looking at the man with surprise. Hadn't they ever heard him laugh before?

  Gabrielle gasped and winced at the booming racket. The man's mount seemed equally shocked. As though it was also unused to hearing laughter originating from its master, the horse whickered nervously and sidestepped in surprise.

  She'd barely enough time to maneuver her own horse away before the two could collide. Pursing her lips, Gabrielle's frown deepened. "'Twas a simple question, sir. I fail to see what's so funny."

  "Aye, lass, that I'm sure of," he said, barely suppressing the laughter that could still be heard rumbling in his thick, gruff voice. "Och! dinny look so worried. Ye'll be kenning it all soon enough, once we reach Brack—er, the keep. Hmmm, methinks by then, I'll still be the one who's laughing, whilst ye'll be scowling a fine muckle more than ye are now."

  What an odd thing to say. Surely he was not crass enough to be inferring...?

  Gabrielle felt a blush heat her cheeks. She thought of her size, of her plain features, and felt the familiar trickle of self-consciousness seep into her bloodstream.

  With fingers that trembled only a bit, she used her free hand to fist the cloak more tightly beneath her chin. "Are you trying to say that my future husband will be disappointed when he sees the woman he's to marry?"

  "Och! chan eil thu luath! I told ye, speak slowly. That accent of yers is thick, and I'm having the devil's own time understanding ye."

  Gabrielle complied, but only because she was so anxious for an answer. "I asked if you think Colin will be disappointed in me."

  "I'd not be worrying aboot that right now if I were ye. Truly, 'tis the least of yer concerns."

  "I don't understand."

  "Nor did I expect ye to. Yet. Ye'll ken the way of it soon enough. And when ye do, methinks ye'll wish ye dinny."

  Gabrielle sighed and shifted in the saddle. All this riding was making her backside and thighs sore!

  The man's words echoed through her head. They were not comforting, if only because he hadn't given her an answer. No matter how hard she tried not to, she couldn't help but wonder—and worry—what Colin's reaction would be once he saw her. If his heart was on set on one of the tall, slender, beautiful women she'd left behind at court, he was destined for disappointment.

  Her thoughts and emotions spiraled downward. Sweet Jesus, if she didn't distract herself soon, she would scream! That in mind, Gabrielle cast a sidelong glance at the man. He'd moved his mount away and was staring ahead blankly.

  "Excuse me," she said, slowly and precisely, as she again guided her horse closer to his. He sighed deeply, glanced at her, and frowned in annoyance. Since that seemed to be his normal temperament, Gabrielle took no offense. "You said something before, in Gaelic, that I didn't understand...?"

  "Chan eil thu luath?"

  "Aye, that's it." She smiled. He did not. "I don't speak the language," she explained. "Could you tell me what it means, please?"

  "Aye. It means that yer not ver swift." He scratched his thickly bearded jaw, nodded, and shrugged, as though he found it an apt translation. If he realized he'd just insulted her, it didn't show in either his manner or expression.

  Gabrielle sat back in the saddle as if she'd just been slapped. Indeed, her cheeks smarted and burned as though the blow had been tangible.

  Fuming, she clenched her teeth around a most unladylike response and, after shooting him a hot glare, mimicked the man by jerking her attention forward and forcing herself to stare straight ahead.

  What she saw did not improve her mood.

  The hustle and bustle of London was long behind them. They were now in the open, rough, and ragged countryside known as the Borders.

  A more hostile and unwelcoming terrain Gabrielle had never seen. The area was called the Cheviot Hills. To her jaded eye, the seemingly endless ridges of hills looked more like small mountains.

  What they lacked in height they made up for in steepness, she soon discovered. The tangled ridge of moorland was cut with valleys and gulleys that ran every which way. How these men knew where they were going was beyond her comprehension; one hill very quickly began to resemble the one after it. And the one after that.

  Gabrielle tugged the hood of her cloak up over her head to shield her face from the whisk of the strong breeze. Her surroundings were as dreary as her mood. Desolate and bleak, the hills stretched on for what looked like an eternity.

  So did her future.

  * * *

  "What are ye doing, Ella? Ye've been standing in front of that window half the day staring at naught. Did ye forget there be chores still left to be done?"

  "I've forgotten naught. The chores will get done, Cousin. Eventually. Ye needn't worry, the evening meal will be ready on time."

  "Ye still haven't told me why ye're staring out the window," Connor reminded her.

  "I'd think it obvious."

  Connor shook his head and sighed. Women were a constant source of confusion. Why they thought what they did, said what they did, did what they did... Och! but it rarely made a grain of sense to him. Figuring out the fairer sex was a job for much better men than himself, he'd concluded years ago.

  His cousin, Connor had also concluded, was a stranger lass than most. A frown furrowed his brow. Mayhap it was time to find Ella a husband? God knows she was over the age for it. Let whomever the poor fellow ended up being deal with her; she was ever an annoyance and frustration to Connor!

  "Nay," he said finally, "'tis not obvious. Why dinny ye tell me?"

  "I'm waiting for yer bride to arrive. What else?"

  He blinked hard, his frown deepening into a scowl. "Why?"

  "Och! mon, but ye can be dense sometimes. While ye may not be the least bit curious about yer future wife, I maun certainly am. I want to see if she looks the way ye said she would."

  "She'll look like a Sassenach. 'Tis what she is."

  "Aye, I ken that well enough. But will she be as tiny and frail as ye think? And if so, how do ye plan to get an heir from her? The hardest part of winter is fast upon us, Cousin. What if she does not survive until spring?"

  "Then we shall bury her in true Scots tradition," Connor replied matter-of-factly. His broad shoulders rose and fell in a negligent shrug. "Whether she survives the winter or nay, the end result will be the same. Maxwell and Douglas will be united by marriage and the feud tempered, at least somewhat. Meanwhile, me dear brother will have been cheated out of having accomplished the feat. Dinny ye see, Ella? The marriage will have served its purpose no matter how long—or short—a time the wench lives. Oh, I admit I'm hoping to get an heir from this, howe'er I'm not so foolish as to be counting upon it. I'm of a mind an heir would simply be a nice reward for all the trouble I am taking to fetch the lass."

  Ella glared at him from over her slender shoulder. Were she closer, she would have kicked him, he was certain of that. Hard. Connor made a mental note to tame her of that unladylike habit before finding her a husband.

  "Now I be kenning why they call ye The Black Douglas, Connor," she said tightly. "Have ye no heart? No soul? No compassion whate'er? How can ye speak so indiffere
ntly of burying yer own wife?"

  "She's not me wife yet," he reminded her coolly. "Right now we're talking aboot naught more than putting to her final rest a lass who is a complete stranger." Connor lifted his chin and scratched the underside of his jaw as he regarded her thoughtfully. "Tell me something, Ella. Exactly when did ye start troubling yerself o'er the welfare of a Maxwell?"

  "Hmph!" Ella quickly shifted her attention back to the window. Her lips parted, her intent to voice a hot retort, but the words evaporated off her tongue as quickly as they came.

  A sudden commotion outside jerked her attention past the cold pane of glass. "Ye'd best brace yerself, Cousin," she said. The rest she called out over her shoulder as she raced excitedly toward the door that led out of the great hall. "Methinks the complete stranger in question will not be such a stranger come nightfall. Yer wife has arrived!"

  * * *

  So this is how the Scots build a castle, Gabrielle thought... only because it was all she would allow herself to think at the moment.

  She sneezed, wiped her nose, and tried not to notice how the gesture smarted; Lord knows what damage she'd done to her poor nose with a day of blotting on coarse wool; she only hoped the tip of her nose wasn't as red as the soreness there implied.

  Her puffy, watery eyes focused on the castle and its various buildings. She had no idea what purpose the latter served. She sniffled, then bit down hard on the inside of her cheek to keep in check any outward reaction.

  The castle was tall, square, hulking. The drizzle of rain darkened the stone to a discouraging shade of grayish black, backdropped by a sky that was cloudy and gray and equally as dismal looking.

  There was no comparison between this place and the grand castle she'd left behind. Nor would she attempt to compare the two. To do so would only make her cry, and that was something Gabrielle stubbornly refused to do. Especially in front of strangers.

  And speaking of strangers...

  Was it her imagination, or were there more of them now than there'd been but a moment ago? Nay, it wasn't her imagination at all, there were more.

  The group's arrival had caused a disturbance in the day's routine. Men, women, and children abandoned what they were doing and, unmindful of the cold, drizzling rain, straggled out of the thatch-roofed buildings situated protectively close to the keep. Their stares were open and curious, the brunt of them stopping on Gabrielle.

  Ah, now stares she was used to. And the whispers... Gabrielle had no doubt as to the subject of these people's hushed, excited words.

  She noticed that the man she'd spoken with earlier had at some point sidled up near her horse. Of them all, his stare was the most intense, the most curious. A twitch of a grin tugged at one corner of his bearded mouth, and a glint of amusement shimmered in the eyes almost hidden beneath bushy red brows. He looked to be waiting for... something.

  Ye'll be kenning it all soon enough, once we reach Brack—er, the keep. Hmmm, methinks by then, I'll still be the one who's laughing, whilst ye'll be scowling a muckle more than ye are now.

  The man's words haunted her, gliding through Gabrielle's mind like a ghost floating over a misty glen. She shivered violently and buried herself deeper within the folds of her now only slightly damp cloak. The gesture served a dual purpose. The harsh, scratchy cloth also effectively muffled a duet of sneezes.

  She was about to learn just what he had meant.

  Her heart skipped a beat, then hammered to life with double speed. A heavy feeling settled like a chunk of lead in the pit of her stomach. Suddenly, Gabrielle thought she could live quite happily without that knowledge. She was certain that whatever she was on the verge of learning, she was not going to like it.

  "Och! Cousin, will ye please hurry up? 'Tis not polite to keep yer future bride waiting."

  The voice, soft and delicate and as light as a fresh springtime breeze, drew Gabrielle's attention to the door of the keep. Running down thick stone stairs was a girl of about sixteen. At least Gabrielle thought it was a girl.

  Trews encased the creature's thin legs. A baggy leather jacket, with a faded yellow tunic beneath, hung from her shoulders, disguising the form beneath. A sword, smaller than the type the men around Gabrielle carried, hung from the girl's waist.

  Gabrielle frowned. It was a girl... wasn't it? Truly, it was hard to tell. Squinting, she looked again, harder, as the figure raced energetically across the carpet of wet grass separating them. Aye, it was a girl all right. The features were too delicate, the cheekbones too high and smooth, the mouth too full and pink to be those of a boy. Yet at first glance, if not for that unbound, wild shock of long red hair flying out from behind her, Gabrielle would have sworn the girl was a boy.

  The girl skidded to a stop next to Gabrielle's horse so quickly she almost tripped and landed on her backside for the effort. Gabrielle eyed her warily.

  The girl's eyes were bright blue, fringed by enviably long, thick coppery lashes. Her gaze was straight and direct as it met Gabrielle's.

  Settling small, balled fists on her hips, the girl cocked her head to one side. A frown furrowed her brow as her gaze raked Gabrielle's face, then, one copper eyebrow quirking high, dipped to scan over her cloak-hidden figure.

  "Are ye sure ye've Maxwell blood in ye?" she asked bluntly.

  "None that I'd willingly admit to," Gabrielle answered with equal terseness.

  "Hmph! Ye dinny look like any Maxwell I've e'er seen."

  A hint of a smile curved Gabrielle's lips. "I'll take that as a compliment."

  "Take it any way ye like, ye still dinny look like a Maxwell." The girl's attention turned to the man at Gabrielle's side, and she demanded of him, "Gilby, ye great lug, are ye ver sure this is the right wench? Are ye absolutely certain? Mayhap there was a mistake? 'Twas nae doubt night and hard to see. Methinks ye may have picked up another—?"

  "Nay, Ella," the man called Gilby replied gruffly, "there's been nae mistake. This is the one."

  Ella pursed her lips. Her frown deepened to a scowl. If the way she kicked at the ground meant anything, she wasn't pleased by Gilby's reply. "Well, there's naught for it, then. She'll have to do." She glanced behind her, and her expression lightened. Lifting her voice, she called out, "'Tis aboot time ye got out here, Cousin. The first person to greet yer future bride should have be ye, not me!"

  "And so it shall be, lass. Though somehow I'm doubting 'twas a proper greeting ye came out here to give the wench."

  The girl had the decency to blush, even as Gabrielle shifted her attention from Ella to the possessor of that deep, rumbling voice.

  Gabrielle's breath caught in her throat.

  He had shaggy black hair—the color at least three shades darker than her own—and sharply chiseled features; she wouldn't call him handsome exactly, but his craggy features were intriguing. His shoulders were impossibly broad, his chest wide; the latter was partially exposed by the untied laces of a cream-colored tunic. Gabrielle tried not to notice the dark, springy curls that peeked up from the separation of fabric. Tried not to, but did nonetheless. Her attention dipped. His stomach was flat and tight, banded by the folds of a black-and-gray plaid kilt.

  Her gaze strayed lower still, and she swallowed hard. The man's legs were bare, the bands of muscles playing beneath the tanned flesh tight and powerful, rippling as he walked. His stride was long and confident.

  The man was fast approaching. As she felt his gaze sharpen, volleying keenly between her and the girl, Gabrielle buried her face in her cloak and let the coarse material muffle another sneeze. Huddled in the voluminous folds, she instinctively leaned back in the saddle, as though to put as much distance between them as possible.

  It was a silly, childish reaction, she knew, but one she couldn't check. For no reason besides his appearance, the man frightened her senseless. An unwelcome thought flashed through her mind, and she swallowed back a groan. If this dark, ominous figure was Colin Douglas, supposedly the more amicable of the legendary Douglas twins, she hoped never to have
the misfortune of meeting his brother, The Black Douglas!

  The man stopped beside Ella. The two glared at each other for a second before simultaneously shifting their attention upward...

  To Gabrielle.

  Gabrielle had felt herself an unattractive eyesore many times at Queen Bess's court, but never had she felt it to the extent she did at that moment. For the first time all day she found herself grateful for the cloak; adjusting it slightly, she was able to make the dark fabric hide the blush that stained her cheeks as she met and held her future husband's gaze.

  His eyes were a piercing shade of gray, his gaze as intense as his expression.

  "Since I dinny think me cousin has given ye the proper greeting she claims, I shall be the first to do so." He bowed at the waist—a brisk, jerky motion—and as he straightened said, "Welcome to Bracklenaer, Lady Gabrielle Carelton."

  While it rang a bit stilted, his greeting nevertheless seemed sincere enough. Gabrielle sneezed, sniffled, then tentatively lowered the cloak until the dark cloth sagged limply beneath her chin. "Thank you, m'lord, I..." The words clogged in her throat. Her voice went flat as an ice-cold sense of dread washed over her. "Did you say Bracklenaer?"

  "Aye, mistress, I did."

  "But that is not possible. Bracklenaer belongs to—"

  "Connor Douglas," Ella supplied, then giggled behind her hand.

  Over the pounding of her heart in her ears, Gabrielle barely heard the girl, or Gilby's burst of much harsher laughter.

  While she would have liked to think it was the cold that made her head feel heavy and foggy—perhaps bringing on a most unpalpable hallucination?—Gabrielle knew better. This was no hallucination. The man had not been joking when he'd greeted her to Bracklenaer, nor had Ella when she'd proclaimed the keep's owner.

  Connor Douglas?

  The Black Douglas?

  Dear Lord!

  Her blood ran cold. Surely the dark-haired man who stood so proudly and confidently next to her horse could not be...? Could he?

  Fisting the cloak beneath her chin in a white-knuckled grip, Gabrielle swayed unsteadily in the saddle as she tried to absorb this news. Her head spun and her thoughts spiraled downward. If there was a breath to be had, her too-tightly-laced corset refused to allow her to find it.